


the piano is not firewood yet

by silvercistern



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Vague Mentions of past violence, poorly executed interpretive dance, post ep-12 kinda, talking things out, vague mention of past dub-con, well in the middle of the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercistern/pseuds/silvercistern
Summary: “If you are so sorry,” Viktor interrupted him, “you can stand to be a little embarrassed, porosya moya. I promise, it is a very romantic story. And one I believe you should know if we are to skate together tomorrow. And spend the rest of our lives together. So please, sit. Allow me to tell you the grand love story of my life.”Yuuri sat.
  After the awards ceremony, Viktor and Yuuri decide to work on communicating better. Somehow interpretive dance gets involved.





	

Everyone at the table was speaking in Russian.

It made sense. They were celebrating the youngest Grand Prix Final gold medalist in men’s figure skating history. And he was Russian. And so was his coach, both of his choreographers, that teasing sisterly redhead who’d gotten bronze, and the woman she’d brought along. The champion’s new best friend spoke Russian fluently as well.

They were seated around a square table, two to each side. The women were together looking at something on their phones and giggling. Otabek and Yurio were sitting next to each other, but the gold medalist was talking to Madam Baranovskaya as happily as Yuuri had ever seen him. The formidable woman was seated next to Yakov, who was talking very rapidly, mostly angrily, to Viktor.

That left Yuuri. He knew he wasn’t being excluded on purpose, but he was still an outsider. It was partially his fault: he’d told Viktor he’d be able to follow along.

In his defense Yuuri honestly thought he’d be able to, at least a little. He’d been working to learn Russian since he was twelve. Initially he’d had big dreams of introducing himself to his skating idol in his native language. Yuuri would seem quietly cultured and Viktor Nikiforov would be very impressed by his knowledge and maturity. He’d been twelve. It hadn’t been that creepy.

But Russian was a hard language, wildly different than Japanese. And unlike English, it wasn’t taught in school. Not that Yuuri was a particularly bookish person anyway. English was the only subject he was any good at, and that was completely thanks to skating. By the time he’d graduated high school, the Cyrillic alphabet was as far as he’d gotten. Because of course he’d stuck with it, which was maybe when things got creepy.

He’d taken Russian language courses in university, telling himself that Russians were always amazing skaters and he might have a Russian coach one day and _of course_ he wasn’t doing this because of Viktor Nikiforov.

But it most definitely had been because of Viktor Nikiforov.

And eleven years of creepiness had paid off in the end, because the amazing skater Viktor Nikiforov _had_ become Yuuri’s Russian coach.

But not really expecting it at the time, Yuuri had learned Russian. What that meant in reality was he could choke out pleasantries to share with whoever was paying enough attention to notice. Probably better if he wrote them down, since his accent was terrible.

Considering the crowd, Yuuri could write Otabek a very boring, probably confusing letter in what amounted to a child’s handwriting and slip it across the table. Even that was pointless, since Otabek was too busy watching Yurio talk to notice any letters. He was looking at Yurio like he’d discovered a diamond in the street but didn’t quite understand what it was, other than a sturdy rock he really liked.

Under the table, Viktor fumbled for Yuuri’s hand and grasped it tightly. He was shaking a little, but he was also talking at Yakov so violently that the trembles could have just been from their argument. If it was an argument. It was hard to tell, based on how passionately everyone was talking. Yuuri hoped it wasn’t since his own name came up a lot. He knew it was him, because they all called Yurio, “Yura,” or “Yuratchka.”

Pretty much everything about the situation was surreal. The silver medal that Viktor insisted Yuuri keep wearing was just the right kind of heavy, but it slid to the side of his jacket over and over, somehow not hanging right. He and Viktor were celebrating the person who’d beat him, but Yuuri didn’t feel angry or defeated. In fact, he had never been more proud of anyone in his life. He’d also never felt the level of pride in himself that he’d experienced standing on the podium. The passion for skating that he thought was slowly dying had roared back to life. And it wasn’t the idea that he could skate against Viktor that had brought it back.

It was a surly teenager who wore leopard print like it was something that people wore.

Yuuri still didn’t know what to do with that information, other than keep it from said teenager at all costs.

They’d toasted Yurio before eating but the toasts didn’t stop when the food arrived. Yuuri had casually slammed back two shots of vodka and was going for a third when both Viktor and Yurio said he wasn’t allowed to have more. Viktor bowed out of imbibing himself and though Yuuri couldn’t understand what he was saying, he knew it had to be a made-up reason since the only people who knew the details of their exhibition program were the techs.

Despite the levity of the table, decorated with the smiles of people whose faces were normally made of stone, Yuuri felt a heaviness growing on his shoulders. It was selfish to want time alone with Viktor – they’d held each other on the arena floor, Viktor whispering praises and adoration in Yuuri’s ear, until the cleaning crew had asked them to leave – but Yuuri still just…

More than anything he needed to talk. They needed to talk. Both of them talking together this time, not Yuuri making a decision on his own and expecting Viktor to go along with it. Not going the selfish, safer route. The weight on his shoulders was pure unadulterated remorse, and he didn’t want it anymore. Despite never having one before, he knew enough about relationships to know that guilt was unhealthy to keep around.

Viktor squeezed his fingers again, glanced at Yuuri’s nearly empty plate then stood up. He said something to the table as he pulled Yuuri up with him.

Yurio rolled his eyes.

“Oni zanimyatsya sexom,” he announced with disgust.

You didn’t have to speak Russian to understand what he was getting at. The table fell silent around the same time that Yuuri decided he was going to go for a brisk run through Barcelona, perhaps straight into the sea. Madam Baranovskaya took a sharp breath, her eyes flashing, but Otabek spoke up first. His words were soft and since no one else was talking, Yuuri could actually hear him.

“Nyet, nyet. Vsyo khorowo.”

_No, no. Everything’s good._

No one said anything for a long moment. Madam Baranovskya’s vicious smack to the back of Yurio’s head didn’t count.

“Sorry, Katsudon,” he looked like he half meant it, which was a shock. But then he put his arms behind his back and his feet on the table, which set his choreographer hissing again. “I’m sure you need some comfort after your pathetic loss.”

“Yes, yes, but I’ve never been to Worlds before,” Yuuri wasn’t certain where this confidence was coming from, but it wasn’t him, “I’m excited for the view of your head when I look down at it from the top of the podium.”

The noise Viktor made was impossible to describe. 

 

The walk back to the hotel was quiet after they stopped laughing. Yuuri was finally allowed to tuck his medal under his coat. Viktor wrapped his arm around his shoulders and Yuuri wound his own arm around his waist. And they walked, listening to the sound of traffic and each other’s breathing until they reached their room. Overwhelmed by… everything Yuuri dove into the bathroom and pretty much hid in the shower. The fact that he was hiding was probably obvious because as soon as he turned off the water, he was being summoned.

“Yuuuriiii!”

The voice that trilled through the room was trying too hard to be upbeat.

“Your coach insists you get in bed! Such a day you’ve had! And so has he! Recuperation is necessary!”

The sound reverberated strangely because the room was bigger than they were used to. Bigger in a useless sort of way, stretched out like a hallway with long closets and shelves instead of dressers, a bathroom at the far end, and not even a television across from the beds.

The infuriating beds.

For the first time, Yuuri had taken the initiative to ask for a bed big enough for both of them. It had been an ordeal, working up the nerve to ask Viktor if he wouldn’t mind just getting the one and then, even worse, booking a room through the JSF that screamed, “I’m sleeping with my coach!”

Then as some kind of punishment for Yuuri’s weak resolve, they were still given two doubles. Viktor had complained in that quiet, intense way that he had, the one that always got him what he wanted, and the room was comped since there were no others available. The JSF probably appreciated it, but Yuuri had discovered new, exciting frontiers of embarrassment.

He’d also been disappointed, though he’d tried to hide it under jet lag’s grouchiness. Viktor had noticed, though. Yuuri had woken up that night to find the beds pushed together. Not well: there was kind of an uneven ridge where the mattresses touched and the covers were tucked into the middle. But it was close enough. How Viktor had done it without waking him was impressive. The resulting bed was now large enough to host the very athletic threesome that they would never have.

Yuuri popped his head out of the bathroom, still half-heartedly brushing his teeth, “I think when you’re saying ‘coach,’ you mean ‘boyfriend’ most of the time. But whoever you mean, he didn’t do anything that needs recuperation.”

“Fiancé, you ungrateful student,” Viktor sang to the ceiling, his head sinking into the pillow that he’d pushed as close to the seam of the beds as possible.  He was covered up to his chin in the fresh, crisp comforter, wiggling, the way puppies do when they’re excited.

But neither the adorable behavior nor the pristine bedding could strip away the memory from the night before: pure white flecked with blood from the number of times Viktor had punched the headboard.

 

After what had felt like hours of Viktor arguing and crying while Yuuri had coldly steeled himself against his own feelings, they’d agreed to temporarily hold off on any career-related decisions. But that hadn’t fixed anything. Yuuri’s distancing himself from the situation out of self-preservation had only increased Viktor’s directionless temper. It wasn’t a frightening sort of anger, just a cold, quiet fury that had descended on the room like a heavy snowfall. Yuuri had never dreamed he could make someone so upset. He hadn’t been able to handle the results and probably still couldn’t.

So he’d ran off to Phichit’s room out of sheer habit. Once there, he’d sat on one of the beds in silence, just listening to Phichit talk. That was the way things had always gone when they were roommates. Phichit knew Yuuri would tell him what was bothering him when he was ready and not a minute before, so he didn’t pry. Instead he just gossiped. In this case, Phichit speculated about Otabek and JJ’s history, mentioned Celestino’s hypothetical crush on Minako, and aired his grievances about Chris’ stuffy boyfriend who had apparently kept Chris from hanging out and doing whatever it was that he and Phichit did to amuse themselves.

Eventually Yuuri had given Phichit a brief and somewhat unexpected hug then gone back to their room. He opened the door to find Viktor’s messily wrapped left hand resting on a blood-flecked comforter. Underneath it, Viktor had curled in a ball in the middle of the bed. The position had forced Yuuri to either lie close enough for them to touch, or teeter uncomfortably on the very edge of the mattress.

Yuuri had done just that, lying on his side and staring out of the window that had no blinds to speak of. Even though he’d known that Viktor was desperate for a hug at the very least, Yuuri had kept to himself. Touching Viktor would have been soothing, calming; Yuuri would have started to shake the instant he let himself relax. Being the first to lose his composure, would have made his decision to retire seem fragile. Selfishly decided or not, he’d been certain that what he was doing was in Viktor’s best interest.

He hadn’t understood how Viktor couldn’t see that. How he’d been oblivious to just how much Yuuri did not _want_ to let him go. How much it had hurt to do what he was doing.  

It still hurt to even think about.

Around midnight, Viktor had started to cry again. The sound had started quietly, then grew in intensity until his entire bed shook. Yuuri had wondered if Viktor had ever cried in his life, the way he seemed to be getting it all out at once. It had been a strange sound: half-misery, half-rage. A heartbreaking tantrum. Yuuri had clung on the edge of his mattress, silent tears fighting their way out of his own eyes.

They both had been well aware that this wasn’t just about skating. Though the reverse had worked out fine, Viktor’s comeback and Yuuri’s retirement would be incompatible. It wasn’t as though Yuuri could coach Viktor. He definitely couldn’t move to St. Petersburg as some kind of useless kept man. What little he knew of relationships screamed that an arrangement like that would end in disaster. After his abysmal failure in the short program, it was obvious that their engagement had been some sort of delirious dream. It had confirmed his long-held resolution to retire. He’d made the decision alone for a lot of reasons, but one was that it gave Viktor the luxury of not having to end their brief engagement himself.

He’d been trying to be kind. To set Viktor free instead of hurting him more

Even now, their plan to stay on the ice was terrifying. Viktor both skating and coaching at once? How was that even _possible_? Yuuri was going to have to move his home rink to St Petersburg and the night already showed that his Russian was terrible. What if he didn’t like the food? He’d have to learn to drive on the wrong side of the street. Russians were so _direct_.

“Stop thinking, Yuuuuri,” Viktor scolded the ceiling.  

Yuuri went back into the bathroom to rinse out his mouth.

In the mirror he could see that the dark circles under his eyes were finally fading. He wondered if the quickest way to achievement on the ice was to get into enormous fights: both times he’d made the podium had involved a lot of tears and yelling beforehand.

It was definitely the best way to make him look like a hot mess. Minako’s makeup had worked wonders for the free skate and awards ceremony, but had been hell to take off. After struggling in the shower for nearly an hour, he’d completely forgotten to rinse out his hair gel, leaving his head a mess of dampened, untamed spikes.

“YUUUURIIII!”

He leaned out of the bathroom door, grabbing his glasses so he could actually see what flavor of extra cheery or extremely petulant face was waiting for him.

It was generally difficult to know what to expect with Viktor Nikiforov, but his coy expression while laying nude on the comforter, chin on his hands, finger on his lips, and legs crossed behind him was… actually pretty predictable.

“I have to shave,” Yuuri turned back into the bathroom swallowing hard.

He didn’t.

“You do not!” Viktor called after him. “You should wait until tomorrow afternoon, if there’s even anything there.”

Annoyance overwhelmed self-restraint.

“What was that?” Yuuri took a spinning step out of the bathroom as he switched off the light. Steadily walking towards the bed, he flipped off the room lights one by one, leaving darkness behind him. As he approached, Viktor’s face grew from a smug smile to pure delight, illuminated by nothing but the bedside lamp.

“There’s nothing wrong with not being able to grow a beard, Yurenka. They’re for old men anyway.”

“Nothing wrong with losing your hair either…. _Vicchan_.”

Lighting fast, Viktor reached out and pulled him onto the enormous expanse of the beds. He had to be in some kind of mood if jabs about his hair weren’t resulting in immediate whining.

“I’ll keep that in mind when it happens, miliy moy,” he murmured into Yuuri’s ear.

The tension that had been growing since they’d left the restaurant snapped. Almost immediately they were kissing the way Viktor had teased leaning over the barrier at the arena. He babbled into Yuuri’s mouth each time they separated for air. “Look at you, porosya moya, being so cruel after trying to break up with me only yesterday. Yuuri you must be nicer to the man that loves you.”

Yuuri pulled back onto his elbow and looked down, “Is that right?”

“At least take off your clothes so I’m not so lonely,” long fingers pawed at the neck of Yuuri’s shirt. Viktor’s fingers were always cold. Yesterday Yuuri had convinced himself he’d never feel that touch again. It felt so good now, like slipping into the onsen after years away.

But it had been less than a day. The mere idea that Viktor might not touch him anymore had been enough to make him desperate for it.

“I don’t like to sleep naked,” he leaned into Viktor’s cold hand.

“Well,” Viktor tossed his hair, “I don’t like to have sex while dressed.”

And there it was. Yuuri’s pleased sigh slid into one of irritation. Or maybe it was anxiety. Or frustration. All of them at once.

“Viktor, we slept for about four hours last night,” he adjusted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “We’ve only been seriously practicing this routine for two months and tomorrow we do it in front of an arena full of people! I want both of us to be able to walk. Viktor, you’re going to pick me up, and I don’t want to _die_!”

He rolled over Viktor to his side of the bed, pretending he didn’t feel every single centimeter of naked skin that brushed against the places where his shirt had ridden up. They had to sleep, it was very important that they didn’t make fools out of themselves in what everyone would recognize as an extremely intimate program. One that made it abundantly clear that _they_ were intimate. But before he could crawl towards his pillows Viktor grabbed his wrist and leaned over him in a mirror of Yuuri’s previous position.

“Yuuuuri,” he softly ran his thumb across his bottom lip while biting his own, “you’re doubting my restraint?”

He twisted his fingers in Viktor’s hair, and gently but firmly pulled him down until their foreheads were touching.

“It’s not your restraint I’m worried about.”

 

Since their first kiss on international television, Yuuri had kissed Viktor Nikiforov at least five hundred times. If he had been informed that such a thing were to someday happen, Yuuri’s fifteen-year-old self would have been sent into a catastrophic sexual emergency.

If Yuuri was honest with himself, the idea still pushed him pretty close.

But Viktor wasn’t just talented and beautiful and graceful and brilliant and earnest and eager and sexy and the source of nearly every wet dream Yuuri had ever had. He was also clumsy and inexperienced in bed, with only a fraction of the experience Yuuri had himself.

It had been late September when he’d found out.

 

“Yuuri. You should know… it’s been ten years since I’ve been with anyone.”

Viktor had announced this to the wall in what had become _their_ room in Yu-topia. They were lying side by side, lube next to Yuuri’s hip, a condom twirling in Viktor’s hand. Sex had been on the verge of happening… then it hadn’t because Viktor had wanted to talk. Yuuri had expected Viktor to ask him if he was a virgin. Or just to get right to the condescending parts and ask if Yuuri was ready, if he’d thought this over, and all the things the men in Detroit had assumed about a Japanese figure skater of a certain body type.

Yuuri had expected wrong.

“Even then, it was only ever twice,” Viktor had continued, laughing nervously. “The first was a pairs skater who I saw often at the rink, a year younger than myself, I believe. We were both very nervous, but it was nice. He was sweet and very cute when I brought him flowers. Yakov found out a few weeks later. He was furious and sent Sasha away. I felt so angry and sad because what did that have to do with my skating?”

There’d been quiet that Yuuri was desperate to fill somehow, but Viktor had taken a deep breath and continued.

“The second man was in his forties. I was drunk at a party for modeling work I did in the off season. I… did say yes, I think? But not as much as I could have. He was not gentle. Georgi hunted him down and beat him with a skate. He put him in the hospital. After, Yacov bought Georgi the most expensive skates any of us had ever seen. The equivalent to what I have now.”

“ _Georgi_?” With all that to unpack, Georgi beating someone to near death with a bladed object had been the most emotionally accessible.

“He and I may not talk much, but if you skate under Yakov, you’re family. If you haven’t noticed Georgi has an overly dramatic sense of justice and romance. Though he should probably take a good long look at his own life currently, because he is a disgusting creep. Anyway, at the time he was much bigger than me. He has connections to the police that kept him out of trouble. It was like nothing happened at all.”

There had been a long stretch of quiet which Yuuri had used to overthink every single method he could use to demonstrate emotional intimacy without being too physical, because it didn’t seem like the time for touching.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say about that guy. It’s… so much. I am… I’m so sorry that it happened. Is that why it’s been ten years?” Yuuri had immediately regretted the last question.

But Viktor had laughed and rolled over so they were facing each other. “No. Yakov took me to a very nice lady who I talked to once a week for a few months. Our conversations ended up being more about skating and loneliness than old men with skull fractures. I am supposed to feel bad about it? But there were other things in my life that made me feel worse. Thinking now that someone like Yura could be hurt in such a way lets me know that I am a much more violent person than I once believed, but for me it is in the past. I am very good at forgetting.”

The last sentence had been heavy, like there was a lot more behind it than what Viktor had said. For instance why he never mentioned his parents, or anything about his life before he began skating. But Yuuri had been uncertain how to go about asking.

He was still kind of uncertain.

So instead he’d tried to softly brush Viktor’s fringe away so he could look into his eyes. It was a habit he’d developed partially because he wanted to see Viktor’s eyes but also from the secondhand frustration that came with watching someone have something in his face _all the time_. Touching his fringe sometimes got on Viktor’s nerves.

It hadn’t this time though.

“The ten years was more an issue of inconvenience. I wanted to win, Yakov wanted me to win, Russia wanted me to win. The only love I had time for was Makkachin’s,” the dog had lifted his head and Viktor had chuckled. “I uh… what is the English?... well, there was kissing and hand jobs, especially after the banquets when we were all drunk and giddy in hotel rooms. Only that, though. I didn’t want something that meant nothing. Perhaps I am a deluded romantic like Georgi, but there had already been so much nothing in my life. I didn’t want more.” He lifted his hand to gently flick Yuuri’s nose.

“But being with you, it would not be nothing, Yuuri.”

Yuuri had tried his best to make it wonderful since he actually knew what he was doing. But he was nervous because it was _Viktor Nikiforov._ And maybe even more because it was Viktor. So Yuuri had somehow used _too much lube_ and things had been slippery in a way that made penetration surprisingly difficult. The whole process was such a ridiculous mess they’d just ended up with mutual hand jobs. But they had laughed and laughed the entire time.

In the sigh that followed a particularly long laugh, Yuuri had accidentally told Viktor he loved him in Japanese, only to find out later that Viktor thought he was cursing in Russian.

 

After that, they’d worked to improve by having sex as much as they could. Which wasn’t much since they completely exhausted themselves every single day.

So being physically together was still really new.

Yuuri did want it, but that was the problem, he wanted it so much, more than they could pragmatically pull off at the moment. He wanted to bury himself in Viktor while he was wrapped in his arms. He wanted to be pressed deep inside of him for hours until they both collapsed from utter exhaustion. Maybe the heat between them could evaporate the guilt that just wouldn’t go away. People didn’t deserve to get what they wanted while keeping everything else they expected to lose. That kind of astounding luck didn’t come without bad luck following to balance it out.

“You are right,” Viktor pulled Yuuri’s shirt over his shoulders then leaned down to kiss his collarbone, “we need to be in top condition tomorrow, so you cannot run me ragged the way that you like.”

Yuuri sputtered and blushed, but there wasn’t much he could say to disagree. He’d insisted on restraint from the start but the only thing on his mind now was the exact opposite.

Viktor sat up, still unabashedly naked, and uncharacteristically insightful. “I have been thinking, and a night of passion is not necessary to make things better, Yuuri. I’m not angry with you anymore. You made me see things I had been avoiding. I did what you thought was best anyway. I’m coming back! Though,” he cocked his head, “if you ever make such a decision about my life and our relationship without talking to me again, I _will_ be beyond angry.”

“I won’t!” Yuuri sat up, nearly yelling. It was really tough not to fall into the yawning hole of self-hatred, but he was trying with all he had to stay above ground. His next words were softer, because that was the only way he knew how to say them. “I just didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I didn’t let you go, you’d be miserable. That I’d be killing you if you kept coaching me.”

“I haven’t just been your coach for some time, Yuuri,” Viktor leaned into his space, his eyes set. “If you think _I_ would have just let you go, retirement or no, then we need to spend a lot more time getting to know each other.” 

“I thought that was why we were getting married?” Yuuri said before he realized what he was saying.

Viktor turned red from the roots of his hair to the base of his neck.

Yuuri was probably just as red, but without even thinking he brushed Viktor’s hair away from his eye and kissed the spot of exposed forehead that was normally hidden.

“I don’t understand why you insist on doing that,” Viktor sputtered. “Even when I am crying! You are cruel, a baby sadist, Yurenka.”

Yuuri looked at the wall, then out the window, then at Viktor’s left ear.

“No one else usually sees that freckle but me,” he muttered.

Viktor forgave him immediately and pressed him into the bed.

 

“You know,” he said, pulling back from kissing Yuuri’s neck, “I think we still need to practice for tomorrow.”

“The rink is closed,” Yuuri gasped, his hands sliding down the base of Viktor’s spine. “And I can’t do another quad today.”

“Yes, but,” Viktor rolled away when Yuuri pressed his fingers into the dimples at the small of his back, “right now we are out of sync. You are worried and guilty. I am…”

Yuuri leaned over him. Viktor’s hair fanned out in a silver halo against the white comforter. His eyes were almost green in the low light but they looked sad.

“…I am frightened, Yuuri,” he finished softly. “That you will change your mind.”

Viktor’s hands were framing his face before Yuuri’s throat even started to close from panic and self-loathing. “Yuuuuri,” he cooed, “please, we must be able to talk of such things. Otherwise I will keep everything inside and you will never know until I break.”

Yuuri took a gasping breath and collapsed onto Viktor’s chest. He lay there for a long time, breathing in time with Viktor’s heartbeat.

“I don’t know how to make decisions with other people,” he confessed. “I let them make them for me until I finally break myself. And then my decision is always to end things… or quit. Like with my coaches.”

“ _Yuuri… I am not just your coach,_ ” Viktor growled into his hair. “But this… talking things out is not an easy thing for me, or for you. It will require practice, and I honestly am not sure how to star–”

Yuuri could feel the instant the idea struck Viktor, even though he couldn’t see his face. He sat up abruptly, knocking Yuuri onto his back as he scrabbled for his underwear. Yuuri watched in confusion as his naked fiancé shimmied into his tiny green briefs, grinning like he’d found the solution to climate change.

“Yuuri! I know a perfect way to practice!”

“Yes?” Yuuri suspected it was less than perfect.

“I am going to tell you the story of how we met! The first time!”

The announcement was a bucket of cold water on what had been a mildly comfortable situation.

“Please don’t.” Yuuri whimpered. “I don’t think I can take it.”

Viktor made a very annoyed face. “Yurenka, forgive me, but I have little sympathy for someone who made me cry until my kidneys hurt.”

If Yuuri hadn’t felt so guilty, he probably would have realized he was being manipulated. But considering how guilty he felt, Viktor’s sloppy emotional maneuvers were maybe more called for than normal.

“I told you,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry! Viktor I am so, so–”

“Then,” Viktor interrupted him, “you can stand to be a little embarrassed, porosya moya. I promise, it is a very romantic story. And one I believe you should know if we are to skate together tomorrow. And spend the rest of our lives together. So please, sit. Allow me to tell you the grand love story of my life.”

Yuuri sat.

 

“Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a small town by the sea. He seemed to be very ordinary, despite being given a conquering sort of name. He was also very bored. His family, having survived _raspad_ with more than enough money, used some of this money to buy ice skating lessons for his amusement. To their surprise, their ordinary boy was revealed to be a prince the moment his skate touched the ice. He was immediately noted by the new Figure Skating Federation of Russia and at the age of seven he was shipped away to St. Petersburg to learn from Russia’s greatest coaches.” 

Viktor looked up at him, half amused, half desperate for validation.

“A prince, huh?” Yuuri crossed his legs. “Maybe Georgi should be telling this story.”

“A very handsome one, in fact,” Viktor countered with a pout. “But unfortunately, as the prince grew he found himself with few friends. In time, he found a perfect puppy who grew into a loyal dog but...”

He looked around the room.

“This would be better if Makkachin were here. Anyway, few friends, and no love whatsoever. The prince pretended to himself that he did not want such things, he only wanted to kiss gold medals, but even as a teenager his heart was not made of ice.”

Yuuri felt relieved because he hadn’t been embarrassed yet. It was actually nice to hear about Viktor’s childhood, since he didn’t talk about it much. He wanted to ask more. His parents… they must have died, or been estranged. How did you ask something like that?

“At the tender age of sixteen, the prince was crowned the champion of the young world. At the time, it was exciting for him, but it is likely he would have been absolutely thrilled if he’d known just what kind of an impact this event would have on his life when he grew to be a man.”

Yuuri swallowed uncomfortably and Viktor grinned.

“Blithely ignorant, he continued to win and win until he had cases of gold medals which he put in a beautiful apartment made of shining glass and metal. An apartment he could afford for his very own, since everyone gave him money so they could take photos of him holding things. But little did he know that, inspired by his masterful performance, a young warrior had begun to train harder than he ever had before…”

With a groan Yuuri put his head in his hands, only to have Viktor lift him up by the chin.

“Are you saying you’re not a warrior, Yurenka?”

“I’m saying this is embarrassing. And definitely not.”

“Why embarrassing? There are two of us here. I am in my underwear. There is no one to laugh, unless you wish to laugh at me?”

Yuuri laughed at him. Viktor laughed back before spinning around and continuing his story. Throughout the entire presentation, he’d been waving his arms and jumping from toe to toe like he was in the middle of an interpretive dance.

“Of course the prince did not notice the warrior as he matured. He had grown sad. The gold medals around his neck that he had once adored only pulled him to the ground. There was no one left to challenge, only himself and so himself became the only person he ever thought of.”

“This really melodramatic, even for you,” Yuuri muttered, dodging the slipper Viktor threw at him.

“The prince competed in yet another Grand Prix Final, and of course he won, as he always did. It had once been fun to befriend the new skaters, but now he barely paid any attention to the other competitors because he had grown so cold and miserable and just as bored as he had been before he found the ice.”

“You’re really stretching this prince metaphor,” Yuuri rolled onto his stomach, “since he’s obviously just an ice skater. And… he’s clearly you.”

“Yuuri Toshijavitch, you have no respect for art.”

That was a new one.

“It was after this Grand Prix Final that there was a party, which he was particularly dreading. His most entertaining companion was a surly fourteen-year-old…”

“If you’re a prince, then Yurio has to be one too,” Yuuri tried to stall. He’d seen four pictures from this banquet, and that was enough. He didn’t need the way he’d pole danced with Chris to be described in any detail. Yurio would probably send the rest of the photos to sabotage him at Worlds or something, anyway. That would be more than enough.

Viktor glared at him.

“Yura is a count, at best. Probably a baron. Regardless, his company was not particularly interesting, but neither was anyone else’s. The prince was too bored even to drink, and that was saying something for a robust Russian man.”

Yuuri sighed, waiting for the inevitable.

He hadn’t expected the inevitable to be Viktor pulling him off the bed, and beginning to waltz with him.

“Then, out of nowhere, the warrior threw down a bottle. He began challenging everyone, right and left, for the prince’s attention. This man had always been handsome, but there was something about the way he…” Viktor scratched his chin looking for a word, “…gave no fucks, that made him even more intoxicating.”

“Because he was,” Yuuri looked up, unamused. “Completely smashed, and don’t pretend you noticed me before that.”

“I did, actually! A cute skater was staring at me. I asked him if he wanted to take a picture together and he walked away like I was nothing! I am not used to being treated like nothing, it was very surprising.” Viktor flicked him on the nose, still waltzing them around the strange layout of the room.

“First, he battled the angst-ridden knight.”

“You demote him every time you bring him up.”

“Of course I do, he took my world record today–”

“So did I!”

“You’d be demoting him too if you understood what he’d said when we were leaving the restaurant. Anyway, after thoroughly defeating this minor landowner, the warrior next challenged a very enthusiastic courtesan in the art of seduction.”

Yuuri buried his head in Viktor’s chest.

“He was victorious!” Viktor chuckled to himself as though he’d made the best pun in the history of the English language. “The prince considered that victory often in the long, lonely nights…”

“Viktor!” Yuuri wondered if people could pass out from blushing.

“Ah, actually, I got things a little out of order. Before that, the warrior danced with the prince.”

It was time to go for a run. Yuuri tried to shake free of Viktor’s grasp.

“Yuuuuriiii!” Viktor pulled him closer and lowered his head to his ear where he was nearly whispering. “The prince was enchanted. It had been years since he’d had so much fun. Even longer since someone had tried to seduce him and actually succeeded.”

Sultry whispers weren’t enough to overcome mortification. “What did I do? Some weird sort of grinding? Look, I took pole dancing and hip hop in Detroit because I was too advanced for all the ballet teachers and I needed to be in some kind of studio but…”

Viktor was smiling like his face was going to split in half, “You took pole dancing classes? Willingly? Amazing!”

“I’m assuming you could tell that I knew what I was doing?!”

“Yuuri, I was at that point so completely besotted that you could have flown around the room and I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

It really was unfair that blushing was such an uncontrollable response because it was probably how Yuuri was going to die.

“So how did I dance?” he tried to sound gruff and annoyed instead of on the verge of death.

“Hm?”

“What kind of crazy thing did I do? When we danced…”

“Oh, well, you already know how to do it very well, because I choreographed it to be your short program. It was going to be _my_ short program because I was angry with you, but we are not to that part of the story yet.”

“I’m the playboy.” Yuuri’s jaw dropped in terrible realization.

Viktor chuckled, “You absolutely are, miliy moy.”

There was a threshold of embarrassment that Yuuri very rarely crossed. But on the other side was a place where he truly “gave no fucks.”

Getting there was awful, but it was a wonderful place once he arrived.   

With heavy stomp, he changed the tempo and step of the waltz, spinning Viktor until his back was to Yuuri’s front, and then dipping him back as far as it was possible to go.

Because if he knew any dance it was this one.

He’d just couldn’t recall dancing it with a partner.

“Was it like this?” he asked in a voice he’d only ever used when he was pretending to talk to Viktor. It seemed appropriate now.

Five-time world champion, Viktor Nikiforov squeaked.

Yuuri pulled them both up, spun Viktor around, then, put his leg between Viktor’s, grabbed his calf and lifted, dipping him again.

“Or maybe more like this? Was it like this, Vitya?”

“I don’t think this narration is necessary. Perhaps we should just dance?” Viktor’s face was red and he was panting.

Maybe it was muscle memory, but Yuuri didn’t find it difficult.

Three to five minutes later they were both naked, rolling around the bed, and kissing in the sort of way a private dance set to On Love: Eros was likely to lead.

“I wanted you to do this to me so badly,” Viktor moaned. “You tried, Yuuri, but you were drunk and Chris and his boyfriend carried you to your room.”

He would have been humiliated, but he was too turned on. Which had probably been the situation a year ago as well.

“You didn’t finish the story,” Yuuri slid his hand down Viktor’s lower abdomen, stopping just short of where Viktor wanted him to go. It was a repetitive motion that Viktor was getting sick of, which just made Yuuri want to do it more.

“Oh, well, you drunkenly asked me to be your coach, but the next day you disappeared. I was hurt and angry, began choreographing the Eros routine, then there was a video of you skating my Worlds program, twenty pounds too heavy to be able to land a quad and yet there you were, moving like you were made out of nothing but music. So, I came to you, like you asked. I tried to demonstrate my interest the same way you had come on to me. It didn’t work. I was confused, now we’re getting married.”

Yuuri slid his fingers down even further and then pulled back. “That’s a terrible story. The ending is too rushed. I’m really confused by the characters’ choices at the end.”

“You’re killing me, Yurenka. Please don’t make me suffer any longer, you’re a demon.”

There were a few occasions when Viktor’s face begged to be laughed at, and this was one. “We’re not supposed to be doing this tonight, Vitya.”

Viktor turned his head in an effort to bite his own shoulder. When that didn’t work, he started to whine, “I am sure you will find a way to be gentle, miliy moy.”

Hooking an arm under each of Viktor’s calves, Yuuri slithered down the bed until he was on the floor, piling the comforter up under his knees. Viktor was babbling in his mother tongue and Yuuri’s three courses of Russian were definitely not enough to interpret what he was saying.

“What was that?” he yanked Viktor to the edge of the bed.

“Does not translate well,” Viktor said weakly, lifting his head to see what Yuuri was about to do, even though he already knew. He’d reached Yuuri’s favorite state – when he was too turned on to speak English without a thick accent. Or sometimes at all.

Yuuri placed a line of kisses up the inside of his thigh, “I have to start learning Russian since I’m moving to St Petersburg with you. So you should at least try to help.”

“This is not something we discussed…” Viktor’s cut himself off with his own shuddering.

“No,” Yuuri kissed the other side, “but it’s the only arrangement that will work. We can talk about it soon. Anyway, you said something about not letting me go?”

“Da, but y-your family…”

“They’re used to living without me.”

“But I am liking ergh, I like them!”

“We can visit,” Yuuri spread Viktor’s legs further to gently lick his perineum, “but do you really want to talk about my family right now?”

“Nyet, nyet, nyet, _bozhe moj_ , Yurenka. Nu davaj!”

“Tell me what that means.”

Viktor sat up on his elbows and delivered the same line in spiteful, heavily accented Japanese, Yuuri-chan and all. Yuuri had probably never been more turned on in his life.

“Is simple sentence. Your Russian is needing practice,” he added in English, a vein sticking out in his sweaty forehead. “No more teasing!”

Leaning forward and wrapping his lips around his cock, Yuuri smugly obliged. 

 

“I cannot believe I’m marrying you,” Viktor hummed. “Never, in my wildest dreams could I imagine such a thing.”

He was holding Yuuri’s right hand and gently spinning the ring on his finger. They were both sweaty, and Viktor was face down, his head resting on Yuuri’s chest. The new arrangement of Stammi Vicino was playing softly from one of their phones because Yuuri was still nervous about getting the timing right. The city lights from the enormous windows made flickering patterns across their bodies.

Yuuri couldn’t believe it either, but he didn’t know how to say that in a way that didn’t sound disturbing. But they were supposed to talk. To be honest. So he might as well just confess.

“I wanted to marry you when I was twelve.”

Viktor chuckled and peered up at Yuuri’s face, “I knew about the posters, but really, you had very good tastes at a young age.”

It was stupid to blush at something so arrogant, but he did anyway. At least it wasn’t visible in low lights.

“You were beautiful…” he said after a long time, “and y-you skated the way I had always hoped to and I just… was twelve? I mean, I know it’s insane that you’d end up with someone like me, and even for me it was a crazy dream that I didn’t think I could–”

Viktor’s grasp on Yuuri’s hand tightened as he sat up on his elbow.

“You misunderstand me, Yuuri. This,” he pointed at their entwined hands, “is a dream I did not even believe I could have. Love felt too big for my life. But then,” he smiled and traced a finger across Yuuri’s cheek, “you made my life bigger.”

“O-okay,” Yuuri sniffled.

And it was.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> mad thanks to livecement for giving this a read over, and my long-suffering linguist boyfriend for translating all the russian for me, as well things when accents become more apparent. if it's wrong blame him.
> 
> i intentionally didn't provide translations, because yuuri doesn't understand most of the russian either. however, viktor calls him my darling/love, and little piglet (it's a really affectionate term, not a mocking one).
> 
> also! you may have noticed an adorable and very popular comic that uses the "viktor telling a story in which he is a prince" premise as well. ironically enough, this story and that comic were published on the same day. pretty crazy, but i promise we just came up with the ideas separately at the same time.


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